Pride After Her Fall
‘Nice move, doll,’ he drawled, following the movement of her hands. ‘You’re very pretty, and I’m sure you’ve got men lining up down the drive, but conscienceless women do nothing for me.’
Her hands stilled on her hips. She looked slightly shocked, and for a moment he wondered if it was another ploy, then she lifted her chin and said coolly, ‘Perhaps you can get the parts and fix it?’
He could fix it?
Despite his irritation Nash almost laughed. Was she serious?
‘Yeah, that easy,’ he drawled, losing his battle not to pay too much attention to her silk nightgown, or something resembling one, and its faithful adherence to the lines of her body.
In particular when she moved—as she was doing now—it became highly revealing. The silk clung to the long, slender length of her legs, the jut of streamlined hips and the delicate curve of her clearly braless breasts. His body shifted up to speed. She rivalled the Bugatti in terms of fine lines.
He’d lied. She did do something for him.
‘Looking for something?’ Her voice was suddenly sharp, and it had lost its sleepy sexiness.
Nash dragged his gaze from the view to find those amber eyes observing him rather shrewdly. She’d clearly ditched the princess-without-a-clue act.
‘Yeah,’ he responded dryly. ‘A conscience.’
She folded her arms, as if discovering some long-lost modesty.
‘Oh, it’s there,’ she drawled, ‘you just have to rattle around for it a bit.’
It was one hell of a line.
Against Nash’s will a smile ghosted across his mouth. Not such a dumb blonde after all.
‘I’ll take a pass.’
‘Shame.’ This was said with a little toss of those curls as she walked towards the scene of her crime: the rear end of the Bugatti. ‘But I’m sure it can be fixed. It’s only tipped into some roses bushes after all—a little scratched paint at most.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Nothing to get all worked up about.’
Was it his heated imagination or in that moment did she drop her gaze infinitesimally below his belt?
He could hear one of his people speaking on the other end of the phone. He lifted it momentarily and said, ‘Give us a minute, mate.’
‘Have you changed your mind?’ She paused deliberately—it could only be deliberate with this woman. ‘About the car?’
‘Nothing’s changed, sweetheart, except your fine day.’
He watched the confidence dip slightly out of her body, and oddly it didn’t give him the satisfaction he would have anticipated.
‘Expect a bill.’
She notched up her chin. ‘Can I expect anything else?’
‘Yeah—a lecture from your old man about why messing around with another guy’s wheels can get you into all sorts of trouble.’
For a moment she looked at him as if she was going to say something about that, and for some reason he found he was hanging on her answer.
Instead she pushed back her tousled hair, gave him a distracted smile, as if she knew something he didn’t, and headed back the way she’d come.
He wouldn’t have been a red-blooded man if his gaze hadn’t moved inexorably to what he had noticed before: a very shapely behind. It was like a perfect peach, all high and perky under the clinging silk of whatever it was she was wearing—or not wearing.
Vaguely he became aware that the old Italian bloke was glaring at him, and he dragged his eyes off the view.
‘The car is not so damaged you need to frighten her,’ grumbled the older man, ‘and you can keep your eyes to yourself. Miss St James is a nice woman. She does not ask for all this trouble.’
Nash could hear the disembodied voice coming from his cell, but he was slightly bemused by the lecture being delivered to him in hot, angry Italian. Who was this guy? Her father?
‘I know your type, with the flashy car. You want to find some loose woman, you go into town.’
Loose woman? What was this? 1955?
‘No, mate, I just want the car. Fixed.’
He was tempted to gun the Veyron and leave the Bugatti to its fate. But it went against the few principles he had left. The old girl was a treasure, and she deserved to be treated like the lady she was.